It's for the birds

Thinking about birds brings back memories of my first pet, a vicious antisocial budgie with the highly imaginative name of Tweety. Our neighbour found her on the roof of her house and, assuming she was lost, gave her to us. In hindsight I think her original owner had enough of her screeching and sulking and "set her free". I spent the next six years trying to tame her. She remained a very talkative but strictly not to be handled bird and seemed not to age, until the day I found her flopped on the floor of her cage, still alive but too weak to attack me as I opened the door of the cage.

I managed to convince my dad to take her to the vet, though he had already realised what I refused to acknowledge, that Tweety was just bloody old and was probably on her way out. The vet, who obviously wasn't quick enough to hide in the toilet before we arrived, did a cursory physical exam and resorted to holding her up to his ear to listen to her heart (at least I use a stethoscope!) before telling us that her chest muscles were probably too weak to hold her on her perch. He advised we should find a forked branch and rest her in the fork, but clearly chickened out of telling the ten year old worried owner that her extremely old bird probably did not have much time left on this earth.

The next morning she was on the ground again, but this time was as stiff as a board. I hadn't seen it coming but apparently wasn't particularly upset (I don't really remember this - not surprising since I sometimes struggle to recall what happened yesterday). Though, to this day, dad maintains that he is still glad we took her to the vet despite knowing it was a waste of time, as I would have no doubt blamed him for her death had we not. And even now, with my veterinary knowledge of bird health and expected life spans, I know he is right.